As he left her resting in a cave after getting their enlightenment together. He got to check out the surroundings of hell. It was like something was telling him to come closer to the reality of hell. The endless pain had stopped to a degree of 90 percent, getting them to a new state or situation. Those limitations were imposed as a result of the new change of the luminous, interacting with the hell and heaven they were facing in so many ways to hold it accountable for whatever they wanted to do. Basically, he had helped them in the best way possible: the normative needed to evade everything on the way to its top.
The reality of hell is that he could not see any soul wander and suffer so they would not repent, nor would they suffer. In that sense, he needed to create a new show for it to work as he had done to his wife. Conversely, that relationship was not that close to the unique use of fate in the hands of who can dare to dream. In his case, it was farther than that. He never imagined that he could do that to a woman, especially a godlike woman like her fifth wife. It was like something had made it more than a mystery.
In that flashback, he would overplease his wife, but that was not beginning of what he had done with her. Specifically, it has worked the other way around: there was a completely new dynamic from the duo. Even so, that did not change their roles. That is to say that he felt the heat of that unique love between the love and the glory of loving her. The reduction of the universe to a single being, the expansion of a single being even to God, this is love he had for her. It was more than unique: it had increased along with the numbers of spirits in his mental space.
He used his skeleton spirit, getting a 30 feet sword incrusted with old norse ruins, carving eternal slaughter and blood. You could actually hear the air whisper the words in that severe tone to the extent of touching the soul of his being. In that order of ideas, no one could see the greatness of that joy and the extremity of the destroyed side of the land. For this to happen, he needed to infuse a lot of energy into the rune. However, it did not change the fact that it contained that massive quantity of perfect destruction in it.
To wield Skullsangr is to court the abyss in the cosmos of faith. For now, The bearer, in this case, is Basil—be it a berserker, a necromantic jarl, or a spectral wanderer in the singularity—must first invoke their skeleton spirit, a wraithly echo of their own mortality. This is no gentle ritual for those who want to hold it; it demands the desecration of a fresh grave or the spilling of kin-blood under a blood moon.
—As the incantation rends the air—"Bein ok blóð, upp frá jörðu, draugrs vilji, vaxa í sverð!" (Bone and blood, rise from the earth, draugr's will, grow into sword!)—the ground trembles in disdain as if it had never done it… it was an ancient saying in hell. Monsters and skeletons would raise from the ground.
Tendrils of necrotic mist coil upward, knitting together the summoner's exposed bones into a towering armature. Beside that, ribs elongate into a hilt wrapped in flayed tendons, vertebrae fuse into a spine of unyielding guard, and the skull of some ancient foe crowns the pommel along with a huge aura of blood and chaos, its empty sockets flickering with phantasmal green fire of the love of wisdom. Following that idea, from this skeletal core erupts the blade itself: a vast, double-edged slab of petrified mammoth tusk and dragonbone, 30 feet from tip to tang, broad as a war shield and heavy as a fallen longship. It hums with the whispers of the unquiet dead, a low dirge that chills the marrow of any who hear it.
As he saw the sword, he remembered what he had said to his wife:
Basil's titanic frame of mathematical unity—now a colossus etched with the scars of multiversal slaughter in his aura and surroundings—pivots of faith and fame from the void where the castle once loomed that he had taken away from existence, ashes swirling like forgotten regrets of little boys as Veronika clings to his back in despair, her elven lithe form a feverish contrast to his death-reaper bulk in a cute way.
Knowing that, the air of destiny hums with compacted geometry's aftershock in pleasure, every particle of time still trembling from his logos-fueled erasure of needs, but her pleas of regina pierce through the soul: raw, unfiltered, a queen reduced to babbling heat where no one can escape. He chuckles low, a rumble that shakes the earth, half-amused by her cucu frenzy in the long wait of the stars and heaven to be taken in grace, half-haunted by the skeleton spirit's downgrade flickering in his mind's eye where he could see the little spirit—like a demoted god sulking in his periphery of what it used to be. For it is no more . "Twenty whelps of sureness eat once, my light-begging goddess? Fine, but you'll earn this pounce, wify—oxytocin or no, I'll flood you till your cosmos cracks to the brim." Suddenly, emotion surges unbidden: her devotion a balm to the hell-king's tests, that eternal mayhem spirit coiling tighter in his soul, demanding he claim her to anchor the chaos in the moment of love